Artist in Residence

It’s the art gallery cliché: My preschooler could’ve painted that! There’s just something Important about paintings hung on the wall in a nice frame, something that gives them a touch more class, something that makes the eye a little more willing to see the artistic merit in them. Unless of course they came with a multi-million price tag paid for with tax dollars, of course. Then it’s just cause for ridicule. But back to my point tonight.

 

Tonight, a much better night than last night by the way, Cameron explained a painting to me. “They’re falling out of the trees,” he said, pointing to the leaves, green and orange, against a sky of blues. “I put the leaves under the paper, and,” he gestured with his hands, “rubbed them so you could see them on the paper.”

 

There were some tense moments as I did the grown-ups-only part of the frame finishing, where he kept wanting to l-e-a-n on the glass, or worse, step on it.

 

He helped me choose where to hang it – over the sofa, where you can see it through our living room windows.

 

And when it was hung, he admired it from his perch, standing on the coffee table. Then said, “No, Mama, the green leaves go on the top.”  Oops. Didn’t take long to fix that, at least.

 

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“It makes me happy,” I told him. “It makes me think of going to the Lake at Thanksgiving when you were just a baby. I remember the walk we just took down Capilano river, with the fall leaves falling all around, and the blue sky. And I remember raking leaves with you.”

 

Cameron grinned.  “Yeah,” he replied.

 

Before bed, he stood on the coffee table again to see it again, in his PJs, by himself. “I painted that,” he said, quietly. Then scurried off to leap into bed.

 

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